Yes, silly me. Because it would be totally against her character to throw herself down on the wet ground and attempt a snow angel regardless. Right. What was I thinking?
Before we know it, we are downtown, having covered ten city blocks in little more than five minutes. There is a corner bar up ahead. I do not think much of it until my aunt grabs my arm and pulls me inside without a word. Shit, shit, SHIT! In my head, I can hear Lori—the owl-like counselor who managed Rose's care for years at the Multnomah County Health Department—screech about the side effects of mixing alcohol with my aunt’s daily antipsychotic cocktail. But Rose does not care. She bustles through the nearly empty pub and saddles up to the antique mahogany bar, next to a lone wolf. A sly smile shows on her lips and she whispers something in his ear. Before I can jerk her away, he has motioned for the bartender to put his new lady friend’s drink on his tab. "Irish coffee," she beams. "With whip cream if you’ve got it."
"Make it a double," he barks.
Great. Just great.
I grab her by the hand a make a feeble attempt to lead her back the way we came. "It’s late. We should get home."
"What’s the rush, girly?" she jests. "Have drink. It will help you loosen up a bit. You’ve been a little uptight lately . . ." Then her face softens, and she offers pity instead. "Look Sweetie, you’ve been through a lot. A drink or two might really help."
Again, her new friend motions to the bartender, and I am left wondering what she whispered in his ear that has him so hot to trot to spend his money on us. I take an uneasy glance at the beers on tap and order a stout. Just to take the edge off. With the miscarriage leaking out of my body, my relationship with alcohol is free to open right back up. The first sip is absolutely delicious, the perfect combination of coffee, toffee, hops, and fermented malt. It works in an instant; my entire being calms as the creamy brew warms my belly.
Still, this is a serious matter. I lean in towards my aunt’s ear and whisper, "You are not supposed to drink."
Rose throws back her head and utters a hearty guffaw. "Who says? Lori?" She rolls her eyes. "That bitch does not know left from right. Even Darla doesn’t care if I drink. Shit, don’t you know she pays my tab at the bar down from my apartment?" She goes on to assure me that she has had quite a few drinks this week alone and has been just fine. "Thank you very much! I am a big girl, Jane. I can take care of myself." Her voice falters even as the words tumble from her mouth. When she is done, she looks away from me and takes a long drink.
I exhale all of my breath at once and let go of all that is outside of my direct control. I want to believe her. I want to believe that nothing bad will happen, that no negative consequences will come about as a result of this double Irish coffee. Still, I prepare for the worst, one gulp of malty black beer at a time. Soon enough, the varied notes of malt and hops blend together in uniformity, their subtleties forgotten with the lonely foam left at the bottom of the pounder.
"Another?" the bartender calls.
I nod, a little too aware of the warm buzz that spreads from my cheeks down my neck. "How about a shot of Jäger, too?"
"Atta girl," the old man wheezes as he reaches across my aunt to clap me on the shoulder. Does he know that he is buying all of my drinks as well? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t have any money.
The Jäger is disturbingly warm. While it does not burn, it is anything but smooth. A small choke of a cough escapes from my lips, and I reach for the beer to rinse away the balmy black licorice. Aunt Rose is now on her second Irish coffee. It is a double too, of course. My nerves have calmed, but enough anxiety lingers that I cringe at the memory of Lori’s ominous tone after my aunt’s last crisis. I turn my attention to the paid advertisement that has gone unnoticed on the TV over the bar and try to ignore the friskiness going on next to me. It is almost impossible to block out their raspy whispers and horndog giggles, so I am relieved when Rose swaggers off to the ladies’ room to break the seal or maybe freshen up or whatever. But then last call is sung and the house lights begin to come up and she still has not returned.
Shit.
It is a very long walk to the washroom for how short of a distance it is. My heart pounds; my hands moisten. I cling to the hope that our grizzly benefactor won’t follow me and that Aunt Rose is somewhere to be found. Maybe she just fell asleep on the toilet, a reassuring thought now if ever. What? It has happened before. More than once actually.
The women’s restroom is a little too warm and a lot too deodorized except for the cold, fresh breeze that wafts in from above the last of three stalls. Inside the stall, there is a window above the toilet, and it is wide open. No doubt my aunt has escaped whatever obligation she made to that mongrel at the bar through the bathroom window. Worse yet, that horny toad will be waiting out front, and I will be the one left to deal with him. So I decide to follow Rose out the window. It seems like the easiest, most logical choice. I climb up on the toilet seat, grab the windowsill, then, with that uncanny combination of overconfidence and clumsiness that comes with being drunk, I step up onto the shiny silver pipe that rises from the back of the toilet and launch myself upward towards the windowsill. Once I scramble onto the sill, it is an easy jump down to the pavement below.
Three things occur to me as I land. One, I’ve got a nice little buzz going. Two, my aunt isn’t anywhere in sight, and I am going to have to find her. And three, I really need a cigarette. The last is probably the easiest of the two problems to fix, though arguably not the most imperative. The most important, hands down, is Rose. God knows what she will do on the loose and with all of that whiskey in her blood. Lori was right. I should have listened, put my foot down and drug her out of that bar screaming if that is what it took. And I should not have forgotten my phone at home. I kick myself as I pull my empty hand out of my back pocket.
The snow is coming down harder, and at least two inches blanket the sidewalk now. It twinkles underfoot, a well-lit path to guide my search. The starless sky is wrapped in cotton, and it glows an eerie yet peaceful mauve. The mercury is well below freezing, and yet here I am carrying my wool pea coat instead of wearing it. Each sloshy flake hits my skin with a silky pelt, a tingle of perfectly tolerable cold.
Before long, the nicotine fit takes over; it interferes with my attention, precludes focus, and makes for a tactical nightmare. All I can think of is that first drag off of a cigarette, that first deep breath of smoke and the calm that follows a desire fulfilled. My own inebriation, mild as it is, acts as a force field all its own. It feeds the demand and stokes the craving; it gnaws away at any remaining willpower; it forgets any hope of finding Rose before she meets harm or causes serious trouble.
There has to be a mini-mart somewhere nearby to chance my ATM balance on a pack of Reds.
But first there is a hooded figure at a bus stop down a side street who goes puff, puff like a chimney. With a quick turnabout in his direction, I make no qualms about my destination. The hooded figure watches my approach without a move. As we meet, I raise my right hand in greeting, not quite a wave but close enough. Now, I know what you are thinking . . . what the fuck is this chick thinking? Little girl, five foot two on a good day, weighing in at barely a buck and a quarter, on a random wander through a not-so-nice part of town, at night, and with the nerve to approach a stranger huddled in a bus shelter for tobacco charity. Really? My only defense is that in that moment, with enough alcohol in my blood and parched for a smoke, it does make sense. There is no danger in the air, no alarm bells go off near this mass wrapped in black. In the sixth sense of an altered state, I would know if this stranger posed a threat. I stop just outside the bus shelter and say, "Hate to bother you."
The figure is faced away from the street, away from me, sitting cross-legged and backwards on the bench inside the shelter. His anti-response is surreal. He takes another puff and does not bother to turn in the least. I cannot tell if he is wearing a sheet, or, no, no it looks like a sleeping bag. Perhaps he is just tangled up in the two. To this wrink
led mass, I must not exist right now. As the city grows whiter and the sky more purple, he appears to occur as a stump in time, unaware of his surroundings even as he is engrossed in the now−like someone with a traumatic brain injury practicing mindfulness. Ironically, I envy and pity him in the same moment.
"Hey!" Do I push my luck or what? "Hey!" This time my finger prods his shoulder for attention.
A slight turn of the head, ten degrees would be a generous estimate, and as close as he is going to get to saying, "What?"
"Got an extra smoke?"
The mass grunts—a deep, perplexed, disgruntled grunt.
"I said, got an extra smoke?" My manner is not rude, per se, but it is rather demanding. Later, looking back on this moment, I will be in awe of my own balls.
"What was that, missy?" His voice creaks as he speaks. So does his old neck when he finally turns it towards me. The pocks on his weathered face are obvious, the creases generous. He is desperately human. I lower my voice just slightly and ask again if he could spare a cigarette. There is something in his doe-like eyes that softens me, and I feel an emotion similar to, but not exactly, remorse.
"Heh?" he grunts once again.
Remembering my aunt, I try a different approach. "Have you seen a woman? Skinny? Long black hair like a raven? Gray eyes?" His eyes morph to coal, and his stare is haunted by ghosts I cannot recognize. There is a twinge in my neck, and my head grows tight as if it is in a vice. Adrenaline floods my system.
Suddenly, this giant black thing turns and rises, exposing the grayish ivory of his face and arms, the scars of a hard life splattered across his skin. He does not say anything, just stands there on the bench. Even hunched over, his head hits the ceiling. He stares at me with pupils afire. My next move will be a decisive one. Common sense, practicality and all of that, would say, "Run!" And surely that would make the most sense. "Got an extra smoke?" I say it with a blank stare, as if I had never mentioned the woman with the raven hair that upset him so.
His eyes return to their doe-like state, overwhelmed as they are with bewilderment. He mumbles something unintelligible and digs into a hidden pocket deep within his layers of sheet and sleeping bag. Finally he produces a shabby, beaten cigarette, which he offers with another grunt.
Taking it, I smile a triumphant yet grateful smile. I tested the water, called his bluff, and tamed the beast. Now that it is all over, my heart is in my throat. The adrenaline evaporates almost as quickly as it flooded in. It gives me a kick, a little shake from my core to my skin. The giant black blob has returned to his seated position, although he now faces me directly instead of the clear shelter wall. He is calm, even docile, as he stares vacantly at the snow through a pair of deep set coals.
"Got a light?" I venture.
Another grunt and then another. He digs through his sheets and produces a dingy matchbook. I reach out to take it, and my fingertips peel back, cringing at the stickiness of the book. With the limp cigarette in my mouth, I carefully remove one match and step into the enclosure of the bus shelter to shield the fragile flame from the wind and the snow. The tobacco benefactor leans back into the corner like he is uncomfortable with my proximity. The whites of his eyes are visible above his cloudy irises; a look of surprise and unease dances in his pupils. A smile fails to calm him. I light the flaccid cigarette and hand the book of matches back. When he reaches for them, he shrugs and his palm extends maybe a foot from his body so that I have to lean in and stretch to put them in his hand. "Thank you!"
Grunt.
"Bye." I wave, off to sniff out my aunt’s trail.
Grunt, grunt.
I head east and brainstorm my aunt’s possible whereabouts. She could be anywhere: a park, an underage house party, a twenty-four-hour diner, under a bridge. She could just be walking aimlessly in the snow, no destination whatsoever, alone with her demons and too intoxicated to overpower their voices. She could be in the backseat of a squad car or in the county jail or even back in psych triage already.
The snow is getting heavier; it is at least four inches deep now. After countless blocks, I am cold, my buzz has all but deserted me, and the cranky bitch inside is taking over. The entire downtown area has gone to sleep. I cannot even remember the last car that passed by. Perhaps it would be best to go back to the house, warm up, and start making calls: the police, the hospital, whatever else comes to mind; except there is one major problem with this plan—I am unequivocally lost. Nothing looks familiar. Consumed by my search for Rose, I failed to pay attention to where I was going. Once again, I kick myself for leaving my cell phone behind. A taxi would be fantastic right now, not that I have a way of paying for it.
And then, something like a miracle happens. There in the distance is a figure, obviously female, headed towards me. Could it be my aunt? It has to be! Who else would be out at this time of night and in this kind of weather? "Aunt Rose! Aunt Rose!" My feet take off at a sprint as if under their own accord. "Aunt Rose!" The voice is mine though it does not sound real, distant and muffled as it is in my own head.
"Oh, hi there," she says with a smile.
Panting and nearly out of breath, I rejoice, "Thank god! Shit, I was so worried! I looked everywhere for you! Why didn’t you just tell me you were going to leave? I could have met you out back . . ." I try to push away this frown that reeks of parental dismay. "Oh, never mind. Let’s just go home. Do you know how to get there?" But she just stares at me blankly, her smile overly sweet on an otherwise emotionless face. No words come out of the slight part between her lips. "Aunt Rose?"
She cocks her head ever so slightly to the left. Her smile does not waver or wane, not even the slightest bit, yet she still does not respond.
"Aunt Rose . . ." I stop and stare back. Maybe a different approach will work. I try the same technique that worked on the robed figure at the bus stop and mimic her toothy smile. I hope her short-term memory loss is active and greet her all over again, "Hi there."
"Oh, hi there," she repeats.
"Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have some cab fare that I could borrow? I lost my wallet, and I can’t get home." Then I offer her my grandmother’s necklace, a thin platinum chain with a solitary pendant; it’s not very big but worth a lot in sentimental currency. "It’s all I have," I explain aloud and begin to remove it. "But I will gladly trade it for the money to get home."
"Girl, put that back on!" Her toothy smile is joined by a frown so that she looks something like a constipated monkey. "Now I don’t have any money either, and even if I did, I would not take your only piece of jewelry." There is a twinkle in her eye as she says this. Then she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a cell phone, and calls the taxi company anyway.
We wait in silence for the car that will never arrive because she probably called some random number that does not even exist. She never even spoke to anyone. She made it all up. I am sure of it. And this is all a test, right? My crazy aunt is testing me. What can I do but play along?
But after ten or fifteen minutes waiting in the snow, my bones are frozen to the marrow and my chest is caving in. My patience for this game wears thin. My voice reeks of annoyance when I ask her how she plans to pay for our ride home (the ride that is not really coming, of course).
"Well . . . first we will cover ourselves in my invisibility cloak and climb into the backseat. After the driver gives up on waiting for his fare, I will use mind control to have him take us home. Perfect, isn’t it?"
I nod and do not bother to protest the plan, if an invisibility cloak can be called a plan. Then, to my great surprise, a yellow Crown Vic rolls up next to us. Bdunka, bdunka go the chains. The snow cries, Crunch! Crunch! as it is flattened under the tires. The passenger-side window rolls down in front of us. "You waiting for me?" asks the cabbie, a skinny redhead covered in freckles and wearing a backwards Kangol hat. He looks about twenty-five in the way that someone does who is near forty but does not show it.
Aunt Rose forgets all about the invisibility cloak and exclaims, "Yep, tha
t’s us!" She throws open the rear door and jumps inside. I follow her, cautious and a little taken aback.
"Where to?"
"14th and Hyde," Aunt Rose answers without hesitation. I shoot her a sideways glance. We live at 15th and Trade.
12
(Rose) "14th and Hyde, please," I answer.
Jane turns to me with a terrible quickness. Her eyes burn a hole straight through my cheek. She bores her way into my head and digs around like a dog in my thoughts. It’s cool. People do it all the time, and I don’t mind it as long as they don’t fiddle around too much while they’re in there. In my head I tell her, "When he stops, get out and run!" Not out loud, of course, or the cabbie would hear and drive us straight to county. I can’t tell if she hears me. She just stares and stares through that hole she made. All of this staring’s probably going to make the driver suspicious. Then again, we are in Salem, Oregon, and he sees weirder shit than this every day, so I don’t worry about it too much.
The ride home isn’t very long—a mile, maybe a mile and a half. We could have walked, but this’ll be a lot more fun! Jane looks anxious. Not sure why. Maybe she’s never ditched out on a bill before. "It’ll be ok," I tell her with my mind. "Nothing bad will happen."
The tire chains make a bumpy vibration down a residential street and a tingle in my pants as they run roughshod over the snowy virginity, popping its cherry all over the place as the brakes scream bgunka, bgunka and the car slides to the curb. I look over at Jane and silently remind her of the plan. There’s a twinkle in my eye, and I flash her a dangerous smile. She’s still staring at me, has been the whole ride, as if she's got a point to make or some shit. I wink and pray she’ll follow my lead.
"That will be ten fif—"
I throw the door open. Jane stalls, a stupid fucking deer in the headlights look on her face. There’s no time to think, only to do, so I take off running at full speed. Good thing the snow’s just powder. No ice yet. It’s been years since I had much need to run. My muscles strain, and my heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest. I don’t know how long Jane sits there like a goon, but she isn’t too far behind by the time I dart down an alley.
Jane. Page 5